Down And Out
by springburn
Summary: A fic prompt fill. Malcolm is home alone and pops out for coffee...


This story is in response to this...by petersgal. Prompt...malcolm is home alone for the weekend as sam has gone to visit her parents with the kids,needing some fresh air he bumps into someone he never wanted to see ever again..but whom?

I have often thought what happened after episode 7 of Season Three of The Thick of It. Obviously we know about Malcolm...but what about others?  
I kinda had this story in my head and as it fits the prompt I thought I'd use it.  
I also wanted to write that a little of Malcolm now juxtaposed with Malcolm then, and how he hasn't actually inherently changed.  
Anyway, I'll leave it with you...hope you like!

DOWN AND OUT.

The first shafts of daylight crept across the bedroom wall.  
Malcolm woke.  
It was ridiculously early.  
He lay, blinking up at the ceiling, the seed of a dream still in his head.  
It was that time between waking and sleeping, when, for a few moments you forget where you are.  
Shit! His alarm hadn't gone off.  
Turning his head, finding himself alone in the bed, the cold light of day, hit him.  
He needed to get up, get to work...  
Then...slowly it began to dawn on him.  
No.  
He wasn't in his old bachelor pad. He was in his own home.  
He was a married man, with three children.  
It was the emptiness of the bed that had confused him. Sam wasn't there.  
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.  
She'd taken the kids to her brother's new place in Oxfordshire, for a few days. He was going to join them at the weekend. When he'd dealt with a couple of meetings with his publisher that couldn't be put off.  
It was the school holidays.  
There was no alarm.  
He didn't have to go to work.  
Well, not 'work' work.  
He turned over, yawned, stretched.  
He only ever woke this early when he was away from home or when Sam wasn't with him.  
Why?  
His body took him straight back to his Number 10 days. Even now.

It was too bloody quiet. Silent in fact.  
No little voices. No sound of CBeebies.  
Not a clatter of cutlery, and yell of a super hero, no sound of 'The Wheels on the Bus'...  
Nothing.  
In his political life Malcolm had dealt with crisis after crisis, shit storm after shit storm, now, the crisis could be Barbie losing a leg, the shit storm would be a leak in the paddling pool.  
People often looked at Malcolm and remarked how he'd changed.  
But he hadn't changed at all.  
Formerly he was hard working, fiercely loyal, committed, passionate and devoted.  
He still was.  
Now he channelled those same qualities towards a different area. His family.

Pointless trying to sleep now.  
Up. Shower. Shave.  
T shirt, black jeans. Van's.  
He wandered the house, picking up the odd stray toy.  
Into the boy's bedroom. Bunk beds. Usually looked like a skip had been emptied into it.  
But now, spotlessly tidy.  
Grace's room...she was heavily into Frozen. In fact she wanted to be Elsa. Little sparkly shoes by the wardrobe.  
He sighed.  
Into the kitchen.  
Coffee.  
Fuck!...no coffee.  
Bollocks!  
He couldn't live without a morning coffee.  
Nothing for it but to wander down the road, passed the Tube Station, where there was a Costa's in the precinct.  
Malcolm grabbed his keys from the hall stand, slipped on a jacket and sallied forth.  
The sun was fully up now. It was going to be a fine day. People were on their way to work.  
Walking briskly, blinkered. Focussed on the start of their day.  
The newsagent was open, he slipped inside and bought a morning paper.  
Turning into the pedestrianised shopping centre, where the cafe was situated, a commotion caught his eye.  
A knot of people were gathered around something...someone, it turned out.  
He approached cautiously.  
A man, a tramp, it looked like, had fallen.  
Malcolm could see a dirty overcoat, worn shoes, no socks. Unruly hair and a thick beard.  
He clutched a can of Tennant's Extra.  
Christ! It was seven o'clock in the morning!  
As he drew nearer he could see blood...the man had cut his head.  
What was more worrying was an audible gurgle, the man was choking.  
He didn't think twice. Parting the crowd, he pushed through.  
"Call a fucking ambulance!" He cried, to the nearest bystander.  
Kneeling beside him, he turned the man from his back onto his side.  
A trail of vomit came from his mouth.  
Lips turning blue.  
Malcolm stuck his fingers inside and cleared his airway, the man coughed, spluttered and took a breath.  
"Easy, pal. You're alright." He said. "Stay calm, blood wagon's on it's way."  
The man rolled towards him. Staring up.  
Malcolm looked...then looked again.  
It was Steve Fleming.

The shock must have registered on Malcolm's face, the instant the recognition hit.  
The mixture of repulsion and pity.  
Woollen coat, caked with grime. Filthy finger nails, greasy mop of long hair, at the back of his head, bald on top.  
Stinking of a heady cocktail of body odour, alcohol and vomit.  
Malcolm recoiled as if he'd been stung.  
Siren wail. Blue light.  
Fleming was loaded onto a stretcher, then into the rear of the vehicle.  
Malcolm stood aside, uncertain.  
The paramedic looked at him, "you know him?"  
"Er, yeah."  
"You coming with him then?"  
He hesitated, then made the decision. "Yeah. Okay."

Once at the hospital, he was directed to reception, while they wheeled his former colleague through to the crash area.  
"His name is Fleming. Steve." He told the receptionist.  
"I knew him, years ago."  
"He'll be glad to have a familiar face, no doubt." She replied.  
"I somehow doubt that." Said Malcolm with an ironic laugh.  
Shown into the curtained booth, he sat down beside the trolley.  
The patient's head was bandaged, and he'd been cleaned up a little.  
Malcolm could still smell vomit, but realised it mostly came from his own clothes.  
Fleming opened his eyes.  
He looked at Malcolm, trying to focus.  
Then he began to shout.  
"Oh my God. I'm dead." He shrieked. " I've died, I'm in hell. It's the Dark Lord. Help me, help me someone!"  
Malcolm stood, backing away, as nursing staff came running...  
"Fucking hell...it's Voldemort! Tell me I'm dreaming. Bastard. Bastard. Tucker!"  
He was writhing and fighting, almost falling from the trolley.  
Malcolm stumbled backwards, out of the way, as he kicked and lashed out drunkenly, his words slurred, a string of expletives echoing around the curtained booth.  
Once outside in the triage area, Malcolm leaned against the wall. Visibly shaken.  
Christ on a bike!  
What the fuck had happened to him?  
How had he sunk to this?  
Drunk. Unkempt, a wreck. Jesus!  
The water cooler was a welcome sight. Cold and soothing.  
The doctor found him, just as he crumpled the empty cup and binned it.  
"I'm sorry. Mr Tucker is it?"  
"Yeah, Doc. Is he going to be okay?"  
"We'll pump him out, let him sleep it off. He's quite well known to us. Been in St. Catherine's. Only been out a month."  
"St. Catherine's? That's the rehab place isn't it?"  
"Yes. History of alcohol abuse. Lost his job a while back. Slippery slope. It happens."  
"Fuck me, Doc! I used to work with him. He got me the sack, then took my job. He was out on his ear after a fortnight. But he went into journalism...I thought he was still there."  
Malcolm swallowed heavily. Sat down on the plastic chair.  
"I think this is a long standing problem, Mr Tucker. Probably started before you even knew him."  
"Good God!"  
"Is it okay if I see him, if he'll allow it?"  
"Well yes, but if he becomes aggressive you'll have to leave."  
"Okay, fair enough."

"Fuck off you bastard. Leave me alone." Steve spat venomously.  
"Is that any way to speak to the person who just saved your miserable life?"  
"I didn't need saving, least of all by you."  
"You were choking, Fleming, you ball sac. I'm covered in your barf."  
"Nurse! Nurse! Get this tosser away from me!" Fleming started to cry out.  
"Shut up, you stupid cunt, you're embarrassing yourself."  
"I'm here because of you. I'm not going to lay here while you gloat."  
"You're not here because of me! All's fair in love and war you said. You'd have done anything to shaft me again, but you got shafted yourself...and not by me. Don't paint yourself as squeaky clean, that's not gonna butter any parsnips...to coin your own phrase."  
"You fucking shat on me, you and Nicholson..."  
"That's fucking bollocks and you know it, those crime figures were a fix, and Tom knew he needed me with the election coming up. You shat on yourself Steve, you joined the Miller cabal, you chose the wrong card...it happens all the fucking time. You know that as well as I do."  
"It should be you lying here..." His voice began to turn maudlin, self pity wracked him.  
"And if if weren't for Sam, it probably would be. Do you think I don't know how it was for you? For fucks sake Fleming...I was fucked up every orifice at that Goolding Inquiry, I almost went down the same route. I was a bloody mess. That's what political life does to you, it chews you up and spits you out."  
"I hate you."  
"Yeah? Well I fucking hate you too, now we've got that out of the way, let's talk about you..."  
Malcolm rested back in the chair, crossed his long legs in front of him.  
"Where the fuck is Joyce?"  
Fleming laughed ironically.  
"She fucked off, when I came home pissed once to often. Can't say I blame her. She's got another fella now, lives in Finchley."  
"So you've been in 's?"  
"How do you know that...?"  
"The Doctor told me."  
"Well he had no bloody right!"  
"So, what are you going to do? Keep this up till you keel over one day, or what?"  
"Fuck you Tucker! I've tried to dry out. It's fucking hard. I get the shakes, I fall off the wagon. Why the fuck am I telling you all this! As if you care."  
Malcolm rolled his eyes.  
"For fucks sake, get your head out from up your own arse, you twat. If I didn't care I'd have left you to fucking choke. Walk on by. Good fucking riddance. Jesus! I only went out cos I'd run out of coffee!"  
Fleming was silent. His eyes scanned Malcolm's face, questioningly.  
"They offered me AA..."  
"Did you try it?"  
"No."  
"Why not?"  
"Because I didn't have anyone...because I'm a sad git, with no fucking friends or family and no one who cares whether I drink or not. That's why. I needed a sponsor."  
"I'll be your sponsor."  
The words hung in the air between them.  
Malcolm's face was impassive. His voice quiet. Deliberate.  
Fleming blustered...  
"You'd be...? What? Why? Why would you do that?"  
"I'll be your sponsor."  
He repeated the words with emphasis.  
"But you...I don't like y...you're a bastard...!"  
"Yeah. That's me. I'm a bastard. So are you. But I also had a Dad who was an alcoholic. He was a bastard too. There was no one to help him either, that stuff didn't exist then...I've seen it all Steve, the lies, the rages, the violence, all of it...I've been there. Trust me."  
"But you've got a family, a wife...a life. Why would you help me?"  
"Because even though I'm a bastard...you said it yourself, it could be me laying there. But it isn't. It's you. Besides, I've been a sponsor before. I know what it takes."  
"You have? When? To whom? Why didn't I know about this?"  
"There's a lot you don't know about me Fleming. It was a long time ago, when we were at Number 10. And I'm not saying who it was, so don't ask."  
"Well, fucking fuck me. This has turned into the most surreal day ever."  
Malcolm stood, pushing back the chair.  
"Go back to 's Steve. Let them get you started. Let them help you. That's what they're for. When you're ready, call me. Here's my number."  
He handed Fleming a card.  
"Don't lose it. If I don't hear from you within a fortnight, I'll be banging on your door. You still got your flat?"  
"Yeah. It's just about all I have got."  
"Right! Well. I know where to find you, you cunt. You better make sure you ring me, or I'll take you down to funky town...choo fucking choo!"  
Fleming smiled as his own words of long ago were fired back at him.  
"I'm away home now. I need a fucking shower...I stink of your sick. I bet that'll be highlight of your week...the day I was able to puke all over Malcolm Tucker!"  
He moved towards the door.  
"Malcolm."  
"What now you prick?"  
"Thanks."  
"Yeah. I'll be seeing you. You cock sucker. In for the long haul, yeah?"  
"Yeah. And Malcolm..."  
"Fuck it all! What?"  
"It was a good day, when you ran out of coffee. A good day."


End file.
